


Second Chances

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-26
Updated: 2009-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a day and a night, Luke stays in the diner. It doesn't matter what Sylar had ordered, Luke doesn't have a home to go back to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

For a day and a night, Luke stays in the diner. It doesn't matter what Sylar had ordered, Luke doesn't have a home to go back to. He shouts himself hoarse and he cries his throat raw. He sleeps in the dust until his face is so smeared with muck, he wonders if he'll ever be clean again. There's dirt caked under his nails and the cut on his forehead throbs with the grit imbedded in it.

For a day and a night, Luke waits and hopes, but like his father, Sylar doesn't come back.

When Luke stands in the morning sunshine, face scrubbed with the ice cold water he'd coaxed from the outdoor pump, he holds the Hot Wheels car in his fist and watches the diner burn.

***

Sylar's driven off with all his stuff still sitting on the backseat; all Luke's worldly possessions hastily shoved in a duffle bag. He's got ten bucks in his pocket and the clothes on his back.

He walks for four hours before he manages to hitch a ride.

***

"Where you heading, kid?"

"Nowhere," Luke says. "Anywhere."

"How old are you, huh?" The trucker gives him a smile that might be a leer and Luke tenses because although he thinks he can hold his own in a fight, this guy has five inches on him and at least a hundred pounds.

"Old enough," Luke says through a tight lipped sneer. "What's it to you?"

To his surprise, the trucker laughs. "Relax, kid! You got a name?"

"Maybe," Luke says, and gets that laugh again.

"Okay, okay. You got your secrets. That's fine, I got mine." He touches the rosary hanging from the review mirror and Luke notices for the first time the silver saint's medal around his neck.

"You in trouble, kid? Run away from home? Cause I know what that's like but this," he waves his hands in the air, gesturing to himself and Luke and the cab of the truck. "This is a bad idea. You never know what kind of people are gonna pick you up."

Luke snorts. "Trust me, I've seen the worst already."

The trucker looks at him with a careful, appraising eye. "Did someone hurt you?" He touches his own forehead at the spot where Luke's cut has scabbed.

"It's nothing," Luke mutters.

They drive with the radio blaring country western. Every so often he'll ask a question that Luke has to dodge but mainly they talk about the road or the weather or cars. When they stop for gas, he hands Luke his cell and says, "I really think you should call someone to come get you."

Instead, Luke lifts the trucker's wallet and while he's in the men's room, Luke stows away in the back of another big rig.

***

After three rounds of double or nothing, the pot is up to two hundred bucks. All the trucker's stolen money is on the line but Luke knows he has this in the bag. He's been playing pool since he could lift a cue and people are always _oh so willing_ to take advantage of a cocky kid whose aim seems to lilt a little too conveniently to the left. He'd learnt long ago to put up enough of a challenge that when it comes time to clear the table, the people he fleeces leave without even knowing they've been hustled. Five balls to pot and he'll have a clean bed and a hot meal for the night; enough cash left over for a bus ticket to get the hell outta dodge.

Seven ball corner pocket. Luke wipes a sweaty palm on the back of his pants, biting back a grin that would give him away. He's missed this rush: the thrill of adrenaline racing through his chest. It's not anywhere near as intense as using his ability but it's close enough for now, close enough to take the edge off. He lines up his cue, and eyes the angles carefully. It'll be tricky but he thinks he can pot it off a rebound and make it look like a lucky shot. He makes a big show of taking aim, leaning low on the table and testing the balance of the cue in his hand.

He draws back his arm and then, pauses, stopping to re-chalk. The cue doesn't need it but the sheepish smile he gives his mark elicits the low, relaxed chuckle of someone who thinks he's going to win. He holds up his beer in salute and Luke takes a sip of his in return. This patsy is so taken in that he'd bought a round to make up for trouncing Luke in the last game. They'd been halfway through the pitcher when Luke had laid the last of his cash on the table and egged him on to one more rematch. It hadn't taken much to twist his arm.

Luke takes a deep breath and aims again. This time, he doesn't pause and his world narrows to the crack of the cue tip on the white ball and the sound of the balls spinning on the worn felt tabletop. The white ball strikes the seven ball but instead of ricocheting off, there's a single long finger holding the ball still.

"Hey!" Luke snaps, wielding the cue aggressively. His eyes follow the line of the finger, up the arm and when he sees Sylar's face topping it all off, Luke unconsciously falls half a step back.

"What the hell do you want?" he hisses, aggressive to cover his confusion.

Sylar smirks at him, about to speak when the chump Luke's ripping off grabs him by the shoulder. "What's your problem, man? We're playing a game here!"

Sylar glares pointedly at the fingers digging into his shirt, saying nothing and narrowing his eyes until the guy takes the hint and backs off, raising his hands a little, palms outward in submission. Despite himself, Luke snorts out a laugh. Sylar catches his eye and grins back, and for a moment, Luke thinks it'll be like it was before. He thinks Sylar might clock the guy on the jaw and he'll snatch the cash, and they can high tail it out the bar together into whatever car Sylar has waiting. Then, he remember that quick getaways didn't work out so well for him the last time and he flushes, pissed at himself for being drawn in by Sylar's showboating.

When Sylar says, "He's hustling you," Luke scowls and hates himself more for being hurt that the first words out of Sylar's mouth betray him than he is mad at Sylar for giving him away.

"What?"

The man balls his fists and turns to Luke, and Luke squeezes the cue a little tighter. The rush of adrenaline is back, more intense now and his muscles are twitching for a fight. He opens his eyes wide and goes for the baby faced innocence that so many people are fooled by. "What? No! I wasn't---"

But the man is looking from him to the wad of cash to Sylar's smarmy grin and sceptical brow and Luke knows he doesn't stand a chance. He wonders if Sylar will stand by and watch him get beaten up or if he'll step in and throw a punch or two himself. Luke's last black eye has barely healed and with a newly split lip and roughed up face, it'll be harder to shoplift the things he needs to survive. It doesn't matter that Sylar can heal; Luke plans to crack the pool cue over his head for fucking things up again.

Then, when the man takes a meaningful step towards him, seconds before the fight can start, Sylar flashes a badge. It's too quick for Luke to really see it, but it looks official. He wonders whose corpse Sylar lifted it from.

"Take your money and get outta here," he orders.

"Stay out of this," the man snaps.

Sylar puts a hand to his chest and even the easiest mark Luke's ever had has enough sense to take that for the warning it is. He swallows loudly and looks Sylar up and down. He mustn't like the odds because he falls back. "Hey, man, I wasn't starting anything…"

"Unlicensed gambling is illegal. So is supplying a minor with alcohol," Sylar says dryly.

"Hey! He had ID!" the bartender yells from the shadows where he's been lurking.

"It was just a friendly wager!"

Everyone is panicked, now, and Luke's body thrums in anticipation of when it'll all go down. He's itching to nuke this asshole before he can pocket the dough and run.

"Okay! Okay!" Sylar shouts them all down. "Look, no one's getting in trouble. You," he says to the mark, "take your money and be glad you didn't lose your shirt. You," he snaps at the bartender. "Get me a scotch on the rocks and we'll let this slide."

"You," he says to Luke. "We need to talk."

But Luke doesn't feel like talking. "Yeah, well, you just lost me two hundred bucks, dickhead. I don't have time to chit-chat."

Luke puts the pool cue down and tries to shoulder past him but a telekinetic force stops him in his tracks. He spins on his heel and snarls at Sylar, fully intending to fry the jackass and deal with the consequences later, but the bartender is there at his elbow, handing over his drink and hovering for a tip.

"Leave me alone!" Luke hisses.

The bartender glances warily between them and scurries away, clearing empties somewhere in the back where if a fight breaks out he can pretend he "didn't see nothing, officers."

Sylar regards Luke carefully. Then, he drains his scotch in one grimacing gulp and taps his fingertip on the seven ball. Before Luke's eyes it turns to gold. Sylar tosses it at him.

"Oof!" It's heavier than it looks. Luke weighs it on his palm; a lot heavier. The surface is shiny-new and cool to the touch, heating where Luke holds it. The gold seems to dull a little wherever Luke's curious fingertips land. Luke doesn't know brass from twenty-four caret gold but somehow he thinks this is the real deal.

"That should cover your losses," Sylar says. He beckons with two fingers and after a moment's hesitation, Luke trots behind him out the bar.

Luke has to jog to keep up with Sylar's long strides as they cross the parking lot. He tosses the gold ball restlessly from hand to hand, wanting to ask Sylar why the hell he's back and what the fuck he wants but not wanting to be the one who cracks first.

Sylar stops beside a sporty Nissan and watches Luke juggle the ball. "Don't drop that," he says mildly. "It's worth around fifty-thousand dollars."

Luke immediately fumbles. Telekinetic hands catch the ball before it hits the asphalt and it's pressed gently back into Luke's open hands. Luke's almost more dumbfounded that Sylar seems to be suppressing his smirk at Luke's reaction than he is shocked by how much money he has clutched in one sweaty palm.

"Are you shitting me?" he demands as he slides into the car.

"The gold price is strong these days," Sylar says. "But who knows how long the market will hold. You should turn that into cash before there's a crash."

Luke isn't really sure what that means. In fact, he's certain he doesn't have a clue except that he thinks it means Sylar isn't pulling his leg. He eyes the ball more reverentially now. Luke's got the urge to thank him but after all that's happened he's not sure even fifty large can buy him.

He clutches the ball tighter and he can see the grease marks his fingerprints are leaving on the surface. If he tries to trade it in for real money, Luke would have the FBI on his ass quicker than if he used his power in public. No one would believe a kid like Luke didn't steal it.

"It'll make a nice paperweight," he mutters. "It's not like I can take it to a pawn shop and expect them to pony up the cash. I don't feel like going back to juvie." Especially not because of _you_, Luke silently adds.

Sylar frowns at him. "I guess you're right."

He snatches the ball back from Luke's hands.

"Hey!" Luke snaps and lunges for it, more out of instinct than anything else. But, Sylar's wafted the ball telekinetically out of his reach. On the radio, _Goldfinger_ is playing while the car idles in the parking lot. For once, Sylar laughs and seems to appreciate the coincidence.

Luke doesn't want to giggle too, biting his tongue to fight off the smile that's tugging at his lips. He reaches for the levitating ball once more, but Sylar gently slaps his hands away.

"Watch your fingers," he says.

Sylar holds up his palm and the air around the ball seems to shiver. It vibrates a little where it hovers in the air and then with a liquid _plop_ it explodes outwards in a splash of molten gold. Sylar quickly closes his palm and a telekinetic shield holds the droplets together. Luke's backed up against the car door with his hands held protectively in front of him but Sylar's in complete control.

He narrows his eyes again and Luke can tell he's concentrating. The blob of liquid gold begins to spin in the air between them and as Luke watches, it swirls and solidifies into discs until there are dozen stacks of a dozen coins each lined up along the dashboard. The blank coins keep coming and Luke has a crazy moment where he wonders if Sylar will fill the car with them and he'll be able to wade through them or do the backstroke like some cracked out Scrooge McDuck.

But when there's at least a hundred of them, all neatly piled in front of Luke's nose, all the gold is gone. Luke tries to pick one up but gets a rap on the knuckles again. "Uh-uh" Sylar tuts. "Not yet."

He holds his hand, palm down over the stacks and _something_: a faded crown and worn lettering that Luke can't quite make out, is imprinted on each of the coins. They flatten a little and get chipped here and there. The gold goes from mint shined to a burnished patina, well thumbed and bumped around the edges. Sylar picks one up and flicks it at him.

Luke flips it over, examining both sides and runs his fingers over the surface, surprised at how smooth and light the gold seems compared to the heft and gloss of the ball before. He feels like he's got a pirate's treasure almost in his lap.

"They're worth five hundred a piece," Sylar says. "Don't try to hock more than a couple at once. Don't take less than four-fifty for them or you're being ripped off. If anyone asks, you granddad gave them to you before he passed away. A serious collector; he knew what they were worth."

Luke nods mutely. He stuffs a handful of the coins in his left front pocket. In the right one, he's suddenly very aware of the Hot Wheels car he's carrying around. Even when his pocket's full to overflowing and Luke has more than a few thousand bucks stuffed down his pants, he just fingers the lump the car makes against the denim of his thigh and refuses to push coins down beside it.

"Your bag's in the back," Sylar says quietly.

Luke glances at him, but Sylar's staring straight ahead, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel like he's impatient to get going to wherever it is they're going. Luke snakes between the seats and pulls his duffle bag into his lap. There's a lump in his chest that he can't quite explain, but somehow it seems important that Sylar hasn't thrown his stuff away. Luke fills his socks with what's left of the coins and stuffs the bag down in the foot well between his legs.

"Thanks," he mumbles. Sylar only nods and starts to drive.

***

They drive in silence, out of one town and into the next. Luke fiddles with the radio and it's far more familiar and comfortable than it should be. Luke tries not to be lulled into a false sense of security because if there's one thing that Luke's learned from Sylar it's that he can't be trusted.

"So," he starts, wanting to get the worst out of the way. "What happened with your dad?"

Sylar is quiet for so long that Luke begins to wonder if he'd heard him. Then, he takes a deep breath and says, "Parents suck."

Luke bites at his lips and looks at Sylar carefully, he's sitting stiffly in his seat and his jaw is clenched. On the steering wheel, Sylar's knuckles are white from the strength of his grip. "I'm sorry," Luke says, and lets it drop without saying 'I told you so'.

***

Sylar pulls into a strip mall and parks, front and centre, outside a TGI Friday.

"What are we doing here?"

"Dinner," Sylar says. He takes in Luke's incredulous stare and shrugs. "What? I thought you liked this kitschy kind of crap?"

TGI Friday is the antithesis of everything Luke enjoys. He wants to steep himself in the quirky underbelly of Middle America, choosing a meal from menus that haven't changed since the '50s and eating food made from canned goods that were probably bought back then too. He wants to be hip and ironic and wittily self-referential, everything that the corporate mandated "fun" of chains like this aren't. But, he also thinks that this is Sylar trying to made amends.

"Yeah," Luke says. "I like this."

***

"Stop it!" Sylar hisses, following his words with a swift kick to Luke's ankle under the table.

"Ow!" Luke yelps, but he's laughing too, kicking Sylar back and pretending he doesn't know why he's being snapped at. Over Sylar's shoulder, Luke keeps staring at the flair on their waitress' vest, the perfect excuse to ogle her tits. She's young, twenty-something and the nametag that Luke's eyes keep skittering over says her name is Bonnie.

Luke doesn't know anything about clothes but he does know that it shouldn't be possible for anyone to look so hot when they're wearing a forest green button down shirt with a candy cane striped vest to top. It helps that the fabric pulls tight over the swell of her boobs and she's got at least one button more undone than the dress code probably allows. When she lent over the table to place Luke's meal in front of him, Luke got a direct line of sight down her top. Sylar had kicked him then, too, to stop him from drooling like a dog.

Luke doesn't care how bruised his ankles will be in the morning because as much as he's enjoying Bonnie, he's honestly enjoying the food twice as much. It doesn't seem to matter, now, that they're in a chain not a real diner. Hot food is hot food and it feels like an eternity since Luke last had any. He's polished off a cheeseburger, eating his fries and half of Sylar's, too. He's got a chocolate malt and a dwindling glass of cherry cola and between them they're still 'sharing' an appetiser platter. Sylar's barely touched his own food, watching Luke instead with a faint smile that Luke can't quite place and defending Bonnie's honour from Luke's more blatant advances.

"Want another soda?" she chirps as she sidles up beside their table with one hip cocked and a jug in both hands.

She's always smiling and her lips are soft and plump. Luke thinks she probably tastes like strawberries. He nods his head dumbly, groaning a little under his breath as she bends over to fill his glass and gives him an eyeful again.

"Anything else I can get y'all?" She tucks a wayward strand of dark brown hair behind her ear, neat, short nails, painted a glittery pale pink brushing along the shell of her ear and Luke's pants feel suddenly tight from the sight of that alone.

He blushes a fierce, bright red and takes a gulp of his soda to cover it but only chokes on what he tries to swallow. Sylar's laughter isn't helping and neither is Bonnie's soft, warm hand as she pats him on the back.

"Sorry about my nephew," Sylar says. His voice is deep and smooth and suave, everything that Luke isn't and the smile that Bonnie gives him is entirely different from the vacant idle flirting that Luke's managed to provoke. "Teenagers can be so awkward."

Luke scowls at him and crosses his legs uncomfortably.

"Aww," Bonnie says. Luke grins in triumph, but then she _pats_ him on the head. "He's not so bad. Reminds me of my little brother."

There's far too much emphasis on the _little_ in that sentence.

Sylar smirks at him and barely flinches when Luke cracks him in the shins. Bonnie's leaning one hand on the back of Sylar's chair and her breasts are bouncing in front of his nose as the jugs of soda sit forgotten on the table and Luke's ignored on the other side of the booth. Luke rolls his eyes at the way that Sylar's flirting and he's kind of hoping that Bonnie will slap him for getting too fresh. But, even when Sylar's hand "accidentally" glances off her ass as she turns to grab dessert menus for them, she only giggles and pushes playfully at his shoulder.

"Naughty," she says as he grins a wicked grin.

"Here you go, cutie," she says to Luke as she passes over the menu. "What can I get you for dessert?"

"I'm not in the mood," he says. He feels stupid and gangly and moody, and he doesn't like the way that at his words, her smile falters for the first time tonight. But, Sylar snaps his own menu closed and hands it back to her.

"Can we get the check, please?" he says. That's the end of that.

Bonnie leaves her number scrawled with a smiley face on the back of their receipt. Sylar doesn't take it and Luke doesn't either. He leaves a single gold coin as a tip, just because he can.

***

It's only when the door to their motel room clicks shut that Luke realises he still doesn't know why Sylar's come back or what he wants. He dumps his duffle bag on one of the beds and grabs Sylar's arm before he can disappear into the bathroom for one of the hour long showers he seems to enjoy so much.

"What are we doing?" he asks, gripping Sylar's arm tighter when Sylar sighs, not wanting to shatter the feeling of camaraderie that's between them.

"Here," Sylar says. "Sit down."

They sit at the pokey little table in the corner and from his own bag, Sylar pulls out stacks and stacks of manila files. He fans them out in front of Luke. "Pick a file, any file," he says, like a cheesy cruise ship magician.

Luke rolls his eyes and takes one at random. Inside there's lots of information about someone he's never heard of. A dude named Matt Parkman who used to be a cop. There's photos and addresses, medical, family and employment history; details of his capture and escape. In bold red letters in the corner, Matt's been labelled as a telepath.

Luke picks another file and flicks through it. This one's for a pretty black girl named Monica, down in New Orleans. Adoptive muscle memory.

They're all the same, file after file after file of everything there is to know about people with abilities. Luke finds his own file, _microwave emission_, and scans the things they'd thought to note. His life doesn't amount to more than a rap sheet and patchy school attendance record until Sylar came along. Then there's page after page of surveillance photos and eyewitness accounts.

"Where'd you get these?" Luke finally asks.

"Homeland security. Danko's dead."

Luke nods, not really understanding. He's heard the name before, some guy who worked with Senator Petrelli. His death hadn't made the news yet, or not that Luke had noticed.

"So, what's this got to do with me?"

"Choose one and we'll go find them. Get their power. Together."

It's like Luke's every fantasy come true and that's what stopping him from saying yes and making his stomach churn with dread, because nothing good ever comes no strings attached.

"Why?" he whispers.

"You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Why?" Luke asks again. "After all this, why should I?"

Sylar leans back in his chair and sighs. He stares at Luke for a long, hard moment and then pulls a final manila folder from his bag. This one is thick, much thicker than the others, with dog-eared corners and loose leaf sheets of paper sticking out from all sides. He weighs it in his hands, seemingly considering before placing it carefully in front of Luke.

"Because maybe I don't want to be like my father anymore," he whispers.

Luke opens the file; Gabriel Gray: _intuitive aptitude_.


End file.
